


Masques and Revels

by lferion



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Clothing Porn, Elizabethan, Historical, Holly King, M/M, Masques and Plays, Poetry, Rare Pairing, Twelfth Night - Freeform, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walter Graham had been tasked with putting on a Masque for Twelfth Night for the Earl of Keld, starring the Earl's protege and privy secretary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masques and Revels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/gifts).



> Taz requested carnival &/or Elizabethan. I hope this pleases.
> 
> This story would not have gotten written without the encouragement, brainstorming, hand-holding, commentary and cheering on of Morgynleri, Cathalin, Auberus, Athena, and most especially Jay Tryfanstone. Thank you so much, ladies. I truly could not have done it without you. Thanks also go to Amand_r for putting up with me. Again.

____________________

  


It was the season of misrule. Approaching Christmastide and all the antic energy and excess that implied in the peace and plenty that Gloriana had brought England. Not anarchy, with no structure or authority to things, but a time when the ordinary order secular and sacred was upended, set aside for space. It was carnival, license, glitter and paradox and chance; the brief, bright chaos of Twelfth Night and the reign of the Fool. Walter Graham was in his element. So was Methos, for very different reasons.

The ordinary order of things was upended, sanction given for all manner of absurdity and foolishness.

 _Welcome be ye that are here  
Welcome all another year  
Welcome Twelfth Day all in fere!  
Welcome Yule! Welcome Yule!_

  


____________________

  


Walter Graham had been tasked with putting on a Masque for Twelfth Night for the Earl of Keld's Court at Keisley, an honor he could not — certainly did not want to — refuse. Patronage! The opportunity to show his newest proteges to very good advantage, in a production with a budget and a guaranteed audience. Of course, he had been strongly urged (call it what it was, Walter, if only to yourself: it wasn’t a suggestion, not from my lord Richard Netherwood, the Earl of Keld) to accept the conceit and imagery requested, and use such pieces of the script already written. And the very best part was to go to the young man that everyone knew was not _just_ his lordship’s privy secretary. Privy to his bed, most like, and not merely his counsels and cabinet. It was not hard to see what hand – or prick – was behind _that_ suggestion. Still, it was not too great a price for the opportunity, and the youth was certain to be decorative, whatever else his talents might be. And Walter could always turn the plot and speeches to use again later. A new play to add to the touring repertory, suitably amended, of course. Besides, he would have to alter the thing from a masque with its set-pieces and tableaus and courtly dancing into a proper play in any case.

Walter had been just beginning to worry about employment for the winter when he'd been recommended to the Earl by one of his former proteges, a man Walter had had high hopes for — hopes somewhat realized when Roger had been taken on as the principal viol-player in the Earl of Keld's personal consort. It was a fine position, but the Earl spent more of his time in the distant wilds of the North of England, far from the busy excitement of London and the opportunities presented for performance, and much too near to Scotland for Walter's comfort. (There were people there who would still remember Wat Graeme, jester and fool and head of the most motley troupe of players in Edinburgh, that damn'd perceptive fair-haired devil not the least). But no other employment had been in the offing, so to the North he had gone on receipt of the letter with the commission.

Better fortune than they had looked for, opined Henry Snyder, Walter's current second player and a dab hand with a length of fustian or stuff, capable of turning sow's ears into silk purses. Hal was often frustrated in his efforts to dress the company in the manner he (and Walter) would wish, but this job had him planning lavish and extraordinary costumes in his head while singing every song of holly or ivy, with occasional detours into reeds and rushes and other types of greenery, all the way north in the early winter chill. He had a pleasant baritone, if a little reedy on the high parts, and he knew more songs on the subject than Walter did, at least when they started out. Who would have thought a man hailing from the distant wilds of the Somerset levels to hold such poetic riches? It was just as well he knew so many, as it would be Hal's job not just to design and oversee the costumes, created out of whatever the Earl and his household made available, but to coach the amateur choirs in their parts, and ride herd on whatever wild starts of design or impractical staging the Earl's pet privy secretary came up with. Doubly fortunate that Roger would be able to assist as well.

It was more usual that all the speaking parts be done by actual players, not any of the amateur local gentry or resident nobility — undoubtedly that was one of the reasons the Earl had chosen Walter and not one of the brighter luminaries of the London literary world. Walter chose to take that as a compliment, and was quite confident that whatever skills (or lack thereof) this 'privy secretary' might possess, Walter would be able to elicit a pleasing performance from him. Walter was, after all, one of the best at recognizing talent in the bud, and coaxing it into flower from even the most unlikely of sprigs. Why the Guildmaster at Wakefield had said so on numerous occasions, and Walter had no doubt but that he had only improved in that aspect of the art in the years since. Just as he had in the instruction of his students — two still in the Game — in more violent arts than those of courtly or stage performance encompassed. But he preferred to foster more gentle talents withal.

And a job was a job, especially one that included housing and food for himself and his troupe, and all expenses of the production to be borne by the Earl and not himself. Furthermore, the term was for the entirety of Yuletide, to culminate at Twelfth Night, and very likely, did Walter manage the thing as he hoped and intended, at the very least Candlemas, and possibly all the way till spring.

Their arrival was looked for, and efficient servants and grooms saw Walter and his fellow players greeted, their horses, and wagon whisked off to stables and their gear taken in charge by persons who would see to it that it all reappeared in the proper places where they would be staying. Presently Hal, Thomas, John Simon and the boy had vanished as well, they to reappear after Walter had met with their benefactor and the young man who was by all accounts the actual instigator of the entire production: Master Francis Enys, said privy secretary and the prospective player of the Ivy Queen.

 _Good masters all, within this hall, well list you to our play  
This night we bring, and merry sing, in won'drous glad array  
The ancient strife, right true to life, of Holly, King this day,  
With Ivy green, the winter queen, and well-met in the fray._

 _Now pray attend; if we offend, or cause give for a frown  
No harm is meant, 'tis our intent, all cries and care to drown;  
With jest and dance, song and romance, turn sorrow upside down,  
Make high the least, make glad the feast, give bold misrule the crown_

 _No harm or spite will serve this night, but merriment withal:  
Nay do not greet! Employ thy feet in basse danse or bransle,  
Now voice upraise in joyous praise as white the snow doth fall;  
Tis Christmastide, and well doth bide th'lords and ladies of this hall_

  


____________________

  


Walter was conducted to a public space, grand with paneling, coffered ceiling, and a pair of monumental fireplaces, with a great fire of oak logs laid on andirons cunningly wrought into talbots heads. He was grateful for the warmth as he waited, using the time to look over the dimensions, since the great chamber was likely to be much the same size on the floor above. It was not long before his calculations were rudely interrupted by a clangorous Presence that tolled solemn, aweful bells in his skull, rattling and resounding behind his eyes. Instinctively, Walter clutched at the pommel of his sword.

The man emerged from the passageway that led to the family apartments of the house, stopping for a moment by the balusters at the top of the stairs to look down on Walter where he stood waiting in the hall. Francis Enys (for it could be no other) was tall and slender, with a quantity of dark hair and a prominent nose over a firm chin. As he came down the steps with the easy walk and faint, satisfied smile of the well-born, well-kept, and well-fucked (something Walter had had too little opportunity for in recent days, damn the circumstances), a ganymede not unaware of his charms but not entirely unmodest either, Walter assessed him with a knowing eye. Not a dewy youth, but a young man of wealth, quiet assurance and comely parts, dressed in an elegant and flattering doublet and trunk-hose of murrey satin picked out in grey. His linen was spotless, the starched lawn at neck and wrists exquisite examples of the ruff-maker's art. The deep color of the cloth set off fine, pale, beautiful hands, tastefully jeweled. As he came tripping lightly as any girl down the stairs, Walter could hardly avoid noticing the costly shoes, supple leather dyed to match, pinked and slashed to reveal an under layer of green. The grosgrain ties had aiglets of silver, and silken hose clung to calves that would be a credit to any dancing master.

Walter chose not to think of the fact that his own serviceable watchet and peach fustian was rubbed at the seams, his jerkin creased from travel, his boots scuffed: quite the contrast to the finicking neatness of Master Enys.

"Young" Master Enys (cousin or nephew or ward or some such to the Earl) was in all likelihood anything but young, Walter thought as the man's Presence subsided to a slow and distant vibration before easing altogether. Certainly he was not as young as the Earl thought him, however youthful and downy his cheeks or lithe his step. On the other hand, assuming they were not going to fight — and Walter hoped they weren't: such pageants as this did not drop willy-nilly into a player’s hands every year and i’faith, he’d paid the scrivener and carter from his own meagre purse, in anticipation of the Earl's largess, though he was sure enough of his own skill that he wasn't over-worried if it did come to a Challenge — then the lad should be able to fill the part very nicely indeed.

Now, if only the lad were not afflicted with a simper or a lisp.

 _The drowsy winter world doth yearn for sleep,  
Oak, ash and elder fast their councils keep  
Leaves droop and drop, deer and pheasant leap  
Flocks to fold are gathered from pastures steep,  
Fields soon will slumber under snow so deep_

 _The only green  
That will be seen  
Be Holly King  
And Ivy Queen_

 _The airy mistletoe hath berries white  
The verdant holly red berries and bright  
Ivy, steadfast, berries black as night  
No winter blast prevaileth 'gainst their might  
That herald in returning life and light_

 _Of green we sing  
Bells merry ring  
For Ivy Queen  
And Holly King_

  


____________________

  


Master Francis Enys suffered no impediment to his speech, unless one were to call sweet tones clothing acid observation such. The Earl had put all the responsibilities for the coming festivities in Enys' charge, the bulk of which Enys had in turn handed off to various underlings to take care of, but the Masque he had kept in his own hands. The ordinary matters of payment, lodging, the rooms Walter would have available for rehearsal (one end of the Long Gallery, and the pair of chambers opening off that end for the construction of set pieces; primarily the specific wreathes and embellishments of suitable greenery, and the alterations of costume and such props and small items as might be needed), the household members he could expect to draw on for the dances and songs and other such items were gone over in short order. During the course of the conversation, Walter was treated to a number of trenchant, biting and likely exceedingly accurate observations on the people Walter would be working with. It seemed the role of secretary was not wholly for show.

And while Enys was somewhat older than the Earl thought him, a delicate question or two had established him in Walter's understanding as yet a veritable newcomer in the Game, not a decade out of his Teacher's hands. Walter was immediately inclined more favorably toward him: a person of youth and undoubted skill who could benefit from Walter's experience and encouragement in bringing what talent in art and performance he had to a fuller flowering. Walter had never yet met a talented immortal (young or old i-faith) who he had not been more interested in seeing reach the potential of their art than in acquiring a mere quickening. Waste of talent was a far worse sin.

On the subject of those personages best suited to the honor of the more prominent parts, Enys' comments were particularly cogent, and Walter took them in happily, though not without reservations. He _was_ going to have to be working with them, as well as Enys. He would form his own opinions, not simply take Enys' word for unvarnished truth. On the other hand, Walter was curious to see what, if anything, Enys would say regarding his patron, and was both delighted and a little uneasy when he did speak of the Earl, for Enys was both shrewd and ribald.

"I think," Enys said judiciously, coming to the point of his own participation, "that Keld wants to see me in stays and kirtle so he can fuck me in them. Or perhaps he wants to be fucked. Keisley wants to see me ridiculed as a figure of fun. I also think," -- and here he lounged back in the chair with a provocative grin, thighs open and interest plainly apparent -- "I am going to enjoy myself. I'm certainly not interested in fighting you. Wrestle, maybe, or dance, or some other amusing exercise." His eyes sparkled beneath the veil of his long lashes.

Walter felt an unaccountable desire to blush. It was all too easy to see that the man would make a striking Ivy Queen, despite the nose. And he as Holly King of course. How far would Enys take it? Walter was suddenly quite determined not to be the one to first stand down and cry hold enough in this undeclared — or did that constitute a declaration? — contest.

Why, if Ivy and Holly could strive on the stage for the upper hand in the yuletide revels, why not off? With final death not of concern, it would come out even anyway, much as in the masque as outlined. And Walter was old — and canny — enough to hold both the stage and the season sacred, a kind of temporal Holy Ground, though not precisely geographical.

They were in a pleasant room furnished as an office, a little withdrawn from the chamber that served as both library and parlour for the gentlemen and -women of the house among which company (to Walter's gratified but unexpressed amazement) he was to be counted. Beyond the office was Enys' own privy chamber, the low rays of the setting winter sun drawing fire from the bed-curtains, sending Walter's mind down unproductive paths. Those same sunbeams made Enys' deep eyes glint green-gold, chancy and changeable as one of the fey-folk. A smile Walter could not quite place curved his mobile lips.

Walter grinned widely, laughter gleaming in his own eyes. He had never been one to begrudge spirit and fire in those he worked with. Shall we wager on it? Walter thought to himself. See whether Holly's virtues or Ivy's shall prevail between us? The conclusion in the play was set, certes, but otherwise nothing was certain. Walter tilted his head to Enys in acknowledgement of the game, the unspoken play between them.

Enys nodded in return, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes and making him look even younger. "Come, let me show you where you and your men will be staying, and the little room of office, which if you are not wanting, I certainly am."

 _Ivy is good and glad to see;  
Ivy is fair in his degree._

 _Ivy is both fair and green,  
In winter beareth his berries full bold  
The fairest birds that e're were seen,  
Do shelter there against the cold;  
Ivy,  
To bring forth fruit full properly  
To beast and bird in great plenty._

 _Ivy hath virtues full good,  
Where it taketh hold it keepeth fast,  
Whether it be in town or wood,  
It strenketh wall from cost and wast,  
Ivy,  
It is good and lusty  
And we must love that well good tree._

  


____________________

  


Armed with Enys' information and his own early observations of the household, Walter had little trouble assembling the ensemble of dancers and singers that would serve as a kind of chorus to the thing. Hal and Roger had them well in hand, and the hours set aside for the learning of the steps and music were marked with a good deal of merriment as well as industry.

William Netherwood, Baron Keisley, the Earl's eldest and only son, had a wife, a woman of (to Walter's first, unflattering view) somewhat flighty aspect and bookish tongue, but she danced very well and sang more than adequately. Many of the other women of the household and court were a little afraid of her. Walter was somewhat puzzled by that, but happy to take advantage, casting her as the chief of Ivy's 'jentylwomen'. He did it as much to thumb his nose at the son as at the hint of the Earl, and his own idea of thinking she would be decent in the part. A woman of her station would not ordinarily take a speaking role in a masque, instead being played too, or drawn in to step a figure before joining in with all the courtiers in the general dancing. But this was a private entertainment, for all it involved the entirety of the Earl's entourage, and it was not as though she were taking to the boards as a player. Walter soon discovered that there was a surprising intelligence under the airy exterior. Milady would have a chance to shine.

He thought rather harder on whom to cast as Holly's friend and companion Wren. (If he'd had his own way, that would have been Francis' part, not Ivy, though there was no one really suited for the role of Ivy among his own men, and Lady Eleanor was not up to a part of that magnitude, aside from the unsuitability of it, and my lady Countess was not even to be thought of, so really it was just as well the Earl had decided that for him.) Baron Keisley was not as good a dancer as his lady, and rather pompously outspoken besides. Walter needed his own people in the other speaking parts, particularly Hal as the first gentleman and John Simon playing Mistletoe. Eventually he settled on the Groom of the Chambers, a comely young man with a very nice tenor (and schooled at York Minster no less, though he had never been intended for holy orders). The Baron would be one of the general Gentlemen, and dance with his lady wife in the grand finale.

Once Walter had the order of parts, he could properly assemble the script, with the songs and speeches made to fit the people giving them. Things were coming together very nicely. Walter took some justifiable pride in his mastery of his craft. Those of every degree listened when he spoke on matters of the performance, and everyone from mockingly superior Master Newell (an intimate of Keisley's, much addicted to the bones and willing to wager on nearly anything) to shy Jane Chenowyth (the youngest of the Countess' ladies; Hal nursed a wistful and unfettered adoration of her, not only because of her skill with a needle, but as much for her knowledge and love of cleverly wrought cloth) and even (especially) Master Enys, seemed to flourish under Walter's direction and guidance in the production.

Walter did not choose to spend thought on why he found his eye drawn more often than not to the lean and elegant person of the Earl's secretary; they were bound to be much in company together, by the nature of the myriad tasks to be done, and the necessity of shaping the part of Ivy to best fit the player's skill. Walter was an artist at teaching, as well as acting and producing. Of course he would keep such a one in mind.

 _O Holly standeth straight and tall  
In every season bright  
His leafes green will never fall  
To Winter's icy might  
His berries red will nourish all  
What birds on him alight_

 _O Holly's branches sturdy hold  
The beasts of field and wood  
The prickle that he beareth bold  
Doth venom draw from blood  
And every tale of him be told  
Might trumpet forth his good._

  


____________________

  


Walter found himself pacing through the halls of the sprawling house, past reception rooms and salons, around the library and up and down the long gallery hung with stiff images of lordly ancestors and stiffer oaken settles under the mullioned windows. His own room was too small for strides and gestures, for the movement necessary for creative thought to properly flow, and the swiftly dropping temperature and otherwise thoroughly inclement, windy weather made the maze and even the cloistered gallery impossible. The piece was coming together, finally, and he had no wish to discourage or otherwise interrupt the flow of words and ideas. Periodically he would stop and jot a note in his tablets. Later he would repair to the writing room or back to his own to copy everything out with the lovely fresh-trimmed quills and excellent ink on smooth paper all supplied by the Earl. (Walter had noted the fascinating implement — a square stylus of soft lead cased in fine sheepskin, the point made sharp with a pen knife, that marked paper with a wonderful ease and smoothness — that the Earl had not offered for Walter's use, but had happily demonstrated its excellencies. Pencil was the name for it, and now that Walter knew such a thing existed, the wax and stylus method felt cumbersome and old-fashioned.)

The clock in the hall — a rarity of wealth conspicuously displayed — striking three of the clock pulled Walter out of his ruminations and plans. He was late. Late and undoubtably stayed for. The uniformly grey sky had kept him from noting the passage of time by the light, and he was past due to meet again with Enys regarding the myriad details that any production of this size required. He hurried back along the gallery and through the great chamber, putting his thoughts in order, only to have them abruptly scatter at the sight that met his eyes. Enys was not waiting for him with that superior, laughing glint to his eye in the Earl's withdrawing room, nor tapping his fingers with impatience in the closet that served as a writing-room. No, he was in the inner chamber, in the Earl's bed. Walter found himself stopped still just inside the doorway, tablets forgotten in his hand, eyes fixed on the scene before him. Misrule reigning indeed, and Christmas yet a fortnight away.

Eyes closed, head thrown back upon the pillows, sheets and coverlet pushed down, doublet and hose cast aside, Enys lounged with his legs spread, hips rolling, hands busy between lean, strong thighs, attending to the engrossing matter of pleasuring himself under the avid eye of his patron. His cock fulfilled every hope and promise hinted at by the size of his extremities, shapely and long, stiff and dark with arousal against fair skin, the thicket of curls at the base making Walter's fingers suddenly, astonishingly, itch to comb through them, to feel their springy softness against his wrist as he took that length in his own hand, rubbing and squeezing and making him come.

Enys surely knew Walter was there — the manor house was large enough that their quickenings did not always touch, but they had been in and out so often in the past days that one grew accustomed, but not _that_ accustomed.

Walter found himself coloring up with the way his imagination was running away with him, which was simply absurd. That he was aroused was of no moment, he told himself — no surprise at all, at such a sight, but he had not for an instant entertained the idea of taking advantage of the man's charms. Had no notion of _that_ kind of intimacy between their persons, beyond guiding touch, affection's clasp, the scripted, formal congress of the stage. Yet his nether parts sped mind and stomach headlong into all manner of lubricious, wanton thought. He could not fail to see that he was in fact taking a certain kind of liberty at that very moment, watching. Equally, Walter could not find it in him to stop watching, embarrassment or no, for the flash of heat that struck from under those feathered lashes, knowing, daring, blithely and shamelessly aware of being watched. Walter could tell that Enys was close, the way the hand on his cock sped, the one reaching behind his balls flexed, fingering his arsehole, pressing in, back arching, breath fast.

Also watching was the Earl, himself comfortably seated in one of the high-backed chairs near the windows. One sharp glance took in Walter's entrance and reaction without change of expression, merely a kind of acknowledging, almost companionable nod before returning his attention to Francis. Everything Walter had heard was obviously and unabashedly true, and mattered not a whit. Fortune, lineage, patronage, all secured Keld from any kind of danger or regrettable consequence more uncomfortable than his round-faced chaplain's owl-eyed frown, particularly in his own house. Who was seducing whom here, anyway?

But Francis was coming with a jerk of his hips and a soft, wrung cry, fingers clenched on his shaft as it pulsed, a glistening ribbon of white emerging to spatter on belly and thighs. Walter was imagining his own seed anointing that exposed skin, enjoying the heat of his own arousal, embarrassment entirely forgotten in the sensate pleasure of the moment. Then Francis was turning over, pulling up his knees to present his backside to the Earl, the globes of his arse invitingly firm and pink, a gleam of oil shining slick and wet around the rosy-brown pucker of his hole. (He'd been stretching himself, knowing this was coming, knowing the Earl's tastes and preferences.) Walter's prick jumped and hardened even further at the sight. At that point, Walter's view was occluded by the sweep of the Earl's tawny velvet gown, and while he did not, could not, turn away, he closed his eyes, not wanting to watch the Earl (nothing like as aesthetic as Francis) go where Walter wished to be himself.

He opened them almost immediately at Enys' renewed moan of pleasure and the Earl's murmur of appreciation, poetic words of praise and desire and vigorous, experienced lust. Walter could not help but store them away as he heard them, the cadence and visceral sincerity of them resonating fiercely in his own parts. Entirely without thought, Walter had the points of his codpiece undone, his hand working himself in time to the Earl's thrusts and Francis' breathless, ecstatic sounds.

 _O mistletoe, bright shiner, against the lightning ward  
O mistletoe, peace-bringer, bring to the world accord  
O mistletoe, thy judgement standeth fast against the sword_

 _O mistletoe, woe-healer, green grow above the sward  
O mistletoe, life-maker, thy berries white in hoard  
O mistletoe, thy blessing bright at Christmastide outpoured_

  


____________________

  


Walter paced about the stage, muttering bits of lines and fragments of poetry, trying and discarding phrase after phrase, idea after idea. He was distracted by the unexpected ferocity with which his body yearned for carnal congress with the viper-tongued, beak-nosed, over-praised and certainly over-sexed piece of work that was Francis Enys. He was almost afraid of what was going to happen when he did manage to finish with the blocking and staging for the script and they were required to be on stage together. Sights, scents, sounds, tactile memory assailed him from the earlier evening, sparking both a fire in his belly and a ferment of creativity to his mind and imagination, and it seemed that everywhere he looked the world was dressed in the imagery and symbolism of the green and virile contest, the conceit of the masque given substance in truth.

Finally, he simply sat down in the middle of the floor, and let his fingers have their will, scribbling furiously, stylus digging deep into the soft wax of his tablets. Walter hardly noticed that their number seemed to have multiplied, (though the pair with wax of paler gold was easier to mark than his own, and a trifle larger), a new smooth surface awaiting him each time he put a filled one down. All the while other aspects of the production went forth around him, a very ferment of creation with himself at the heart. When he at last looked up through a dazzle of candles set close about him, it was to see Master Enys' sweet, un-mocking smile as he held forth a long-fingered hand to help Walter up. In his other hand was a sheaf of pages of beautifully clear handwriting — it appeared that Enys had been transcribing the tablets to paper as fast as they were filled. Walter felt as though he had been both holly rider and the ivy-girl pursued, robin, wren and thristlecock, pricked and prodded, spent and satisfied and entirely worn out. He was quite certain the Earl would approve the script this time, and the business of principal rehearsals could commence.

Walter did not have to wait long; Enys came to him the next morning with only the most trifling of changes marked in his pretty pages, and word that the Earl was very pleased withal. He looked forward to seeing it all come to life, he said.

When the rehearsal finally got started, Walter was surprised by how obliging the younger Immortal was, and he was moved to extend the hand of friendship in the matter of small things, the turn of the face to be best viewed and the placing of feet on the stage. And was sometimes disconcerted by the ease with which Enys bent into his hands and voice. Yet in other ways Francis was frustratingly and unexpectedly (unaccountably) resistant to direction or instruction. Walter had to wonder if Francis was making a game of him. Despite provocation, Walter could not think Enys as foolish and fond as the earl his lover, a figure of fun not unlike the characters in a masque more broad and unsubtle as the one they played here. (Nor, indeed, did he truly think of the Earl that way, though it was obvious his son did. No, there was a shrewd and clever mind behind those dark eyes, under that silver-fair hair. Fond he might demonstratively be, foolish his lordship was not.)

 _Was_ Francis as young as his Quickening presence seemed to say? Had Walter only imagined that deep and aweful clangor that had rung brazen bells in his head before he had first appeared? Too often the boy could not seem to remember his blocking from one speech to the next, much less the proper order of the words in those speeches.

"No, no, my lad, my lady Ivy, the words must flow, like speech, not with pauses between each line. Like this: 'For O, 'tis sore a-cold i-wys, without the hall we bide, where lips only the snow doth kiss, our fingers all a-kybe.' And _then_ you spread your arms wide, with entreating hands, to show how chilled you are. Now, do it again."

Surely no one in his position would be so deliberately provoking.

 _Nay, Ivy, nay, it shall not be i-wys:  
Let Holly have the mastery, as the manner is._

 _Holly standys in the hall, fair to behold  
Ivy stand without the door; she is full sore a-cold  
Holly and his merry men, they dansyn and they sing  
Ivy and her maidens, they weepen and they wring._

 _Nay Holly, nay, it shall not be i-wys:  
For Ivy shall be mistress, as the manner is._

 _Ivy stand without the door, the keep she keepeth fast  
Holly in the hall he stands, brittle to the last  
Ivy and her maidens, the linen white they sew  
Holly and his merry men would sad and draggled go._

  


____________________

  


Not long after rehearsals began in earnest and the rest of the household was busy with decking every sill and arch and pillar with appropriate greenery, filling the air with the mingled scents of rosemary and evergreen, bay laurel and holly berries, the Earl called for Walter to attend him. Francis brought the message, as always precise and fine, wearing a doublet of deep green embroidered over with gillyflowers in venice gold and silver. His suite of ruffs was worked in holbein stitch and freshly starched. Walter admired the effect, knowing his own black doublet and tawny jerkin to provide a flattering counterpoint.

Walter went nervously, for the Earl was higher in state than Walter had ever been or was like to be off the boards, a player himself in Elizabeth's glittering, dangerous court, and as rich in power as he was in wealth and land. But the Earl called him into the privy chamber with a warm light in his eyes, cozened him with sweet malmsey and sweeter words, complimented the bustling progress of the masque, and smiled approvingly on the involvement of his own household.

The Countess was particularly pleased, the Earl gave Walter to understand, to see her youngest ladies so happy and busy in what was too often a grey and difficult time for them. "One could wish one's own son were as skilled and subtle in his affairs, but tis no matter. Mayhap my grandson will have better stomach."

"Certes, I shall be pleased to have you and your men to entertain 'til Candlemas. There will be no traveling in this weather, and I am pleased with how well you have taken the young people of my household in hand. My secretary too," the Earl said, his smile showing toothed for a moment. "Yuletide is the season for misrule and foolishry," he said, leaning back in his chair and toying lightly with the silver cup in his hand, turning it to let the hammered facets catch the snow-light falling from the mullioned window behind him. "But misrule ends, betimes…." He was not looking at Francis as he spoke. Then, with a neat turn of his wrist, the heavy signet on his finger gleaming red, the Earl indicated the ewer. "More wine?"

Walter found his business pressing (not the least in light of the barest stain of color on Francis' high cheekbones) and demurred with sincere and flattered thanks.

So, with a benevolent smile, Lord Richard Netherwood, the Earl of Keld, indeed nobody's fool despite a fond exterior, waved them from the room.

 _To mistletoe for judgement thy friendes bid you go  
For his solemn statement his twigs right sharp will show:  
No strife; tis the indictment of love that it be so  
And from thy true commitment shall bliss and concord grow_

 _Strife abides where strife is sown,  
Neither Holly nor the Ivy  
Can stand or rule alone,  
Neither tree can bide alone_

 _Quarrel not but mend thy ways,  
Both the Holly and the Ivy  
Hath virtue worth all praise.  
Both well worthy of high praise_

 _If Wren and Robin, Howlet, Doo  
In green Holly tree and Ivy  
Can concord find anew,  
Then too concord find must you._

  


____________________

  


At last it was Christmas proper, with a conceit in keeping with the running theme of greenery and garlands played out and elaborated on each night of feasting: one night the Holly Riders, the next the Ivy Steadfast Weaves, then the Chorus of Birds and so forth, each building on the last, and leading up to the main event, the climax of the season, Twelfth Night itself.

The great hall rang with voices, from the piping of the choirboys to the rumbling of conversation that washed from all along the walls, to the carrying tones of the heralds and persons in charge of making sure everything and everyone was where they ought to be. The covers had been removed, leaving the boards with only the wine (for the upper tables) and ale (for the lower) and the last of the nuts and apples. Soon even those would be cleared, the boards and trestles whisked away to leave room for the dancing and the performance proper.

The cacophony beat at the ear, nearly a force of its own; all those people, replete with excellent food and drink, the lowest to the highest in the manor and surrounding demesne, awaiting what he, Walter Graham, would present before them on this most festive and fortunate night, an actor's night, the culmination of everything they had worked for. There was nothing at all like the sound of an audience, the scent, the taste, the texture of anticipation of delight.

Equally, there was nothing quite like the moment before the piece began, oneself and all the company resplendent in tissue wrought with bright thread, brocaded satins, figured velvets, the very personifications of the trees and woodland creatures, myth and symbol given breath and life for all to see. Hal had outdone himself, as had every person taking part, from the pot-boys and scullions to the steward, laboring to make all run smoothly in the house amidst uproar; from milady Jane to the Earl himself, presiding with unruffled and appreciative mien over all. Walter smoothed the fur edging his cloak, pleased with the weight and swing of it, settled the gilt-and-silver mounted belt and sword-hanger about his waist once more, adjusted the tilt of feathered cap on shining locks, and held his breath as the Earl's page nodded to the Groom of the Chambers, and resplendent in buff and silver he stepped forth as Wren to give the opening lines.

It was begun, and well begun indeed.

As for Francis, it was as if a veil had lifted, an occluding haze banished with the first notes of Ivy's introductory measure. He was on fire from the first moment he appeared, skirt and sleeves dripping silken leaves, the white swell of his bosom rivaling the most prettily endowed of all the ladies there in shapely grace, the carcanet of black pearls and green beryls set in gold drew the eye from Adam's apple to admire instead the elegant length of his neck displayed by the open ruff. He inhabited the part like nothing Walter had yet seen, as he had never been in rehearsal. Instead of hesitant delivery and uncertain movement, he was wicked and authoritative, queenly and compelling at every turn. Francis' unlooked-for excellence made Walter's breath catch and his heart pound as he marshaled his own forces and rose to the occasion, acting at the very edge of his ability, terrifying and exhilarating by turns. Holly would not be outdone by Ivy, but oh, this was a worthy contest, the outcome to be striven for, the judgement of Mistletoe an acknowledgement of the closeness of the match.

The vaulting spirit touched everyone, making it one of those times when everything went right, and every emotion, every meaningful gesture and affreighted speech was made more lustrous, magnified, reaching out to enfold audience and players, servants and lords in the enchantment of the piece. The progression of the plot from bitter rivalry to gracious, lusty concord became more than just imagery and show, but found fertile ground to work among the players and the patrons, until even the sour Baron was genuinely smiling at his lady as they danced together, and the Countess had a glow about her that lifted a weight of years from her countenance. In all the manor was a sense of light re-kindled, of warmth and hope and blessing for the old ushered out and the new bowed in.

It was a performance and a night Walter knew he would never forget.

 _Chief of trees and first in bliss,  
Veni coronaberis!_

 _Now Oak and Ash bow down before him:  
Holly green with berries bright  
Birch and Hazel to her curtsey:  
Ivy shining green and white_

 _Chief of trees and first in bliss,  
Veni coronaberis!_

 _Rosemary and Yew give honor:  
Ivy steadfast in the storm  
Elm and Hawthorn boughs upraiséd  
Holly comes woe to transform_

 _Chief of trees and first in bliss  
Veni coronaberis!_

 _All the Woods now raise the chorus  
Holly comes to claim his crown  
Beast and bird be ever joyous  
To Queen Ivy bow you down_

 _Chief of trees and first in bliss  
Veni coronaberis!_

  


____________________

  


After the performance and the heady rush of glee at knowing he had done it, they had pulled it off in high style, better than he had dared hope, a dream of a thing, Walter discovered himself still in Ivy's company. The household - nobles and gentry, tenants and servants all would be making merry until the sun came up and ordinary time reasserted itself, at least to a degree, but for himself for once it was not the gladsome throng he sought, but celebration more intimate. Company that understood both now and here, as well as then and yet-to-come on immortal terms. The depth and force that Francis had brought to the stage more than demonstrated his grasp of those things.

When Francis drew Walter away from the clamorous great chamber, he went without thought of argument.

Walter found himself, not in his own pleasant but undistinguished and somewhat inconvenient chamber, but in Francis' much more lavish and comfortable apartments. Apartments Francis did not share with others of like rank or with his protégés and fellow actors, as Walter often had. It seemed the chamber beyond his office was privy indeed.

"So, Holly King, shall we dance the final figure?" A long finger drew a line lightly down the garnet-and-pearl buttons of Walter's antique doublet.

 _"Ivy twine like sweet woodbine, amongst the leaves so green  
The Holly know, and with him grow: the King conjoined with Queen."_

"Only privily, and in truth, not that formal measure that you saw fit to inflict on the entire court. My lord Earl has not danced with his Countess in quite some time, you know."

There was something ancient, almost feral in Francis' eyes, and Walter felt a frisson of fear inextricably twined (ivy in the holly tree) with desire. He swallowed, momentarily without a quip or rejoinder or even an apposite quote. This was not the Francis Walter had cajoled and flattered and outright pushed into learning his speeches and blocking, into having a concern for the performance and not just his clothes. This was the Francis who Walter had glimpsed so very briefly at their first meeting (so briefly that after the first rehearsal, Walter had been convinced he had entirely imagined it) and seen again to his own chagrin and discomfort in pushing Walter in turn to rise to meet him, to the marked improvement and success of the Masque.

And there had been mistletoe in that triumphal wreath of twined holly and ivy, the ribboned globe that hung even now in the great hall. White berries mixed among the red, threads of grey-green amidst the deep green shine of the holly and the lighter green shimmer of ivy.

Gently, deftly, Francis was unpinning the gossamer confection of lawn and lace that was Walter's ruff, setting it aside with the barest brush of a touch to Walter's exposed neck. He was close enough that Walter could feel the warmth of him, breathe in the faint scent of vetiver, exertion and arousal. Walter shivered and returned the favor, freeing the supportasse from the back collar of the velvet gown, lifting away the equally elaborate open ruff, airy and fragile. Francis had put aside the bejeweled wig on entering the room; the sight of his nape, enticing and vulnerable under the short, damp curls squeezed Walter's heart in his chest.

"Or would you rather I play Oak to your Holly, Robin to your Wren?" Francis' voice was soft, but there was a glitter in his eyes and an edge to his smile as he looked back at Walter over his shoulder. Walter had no doubt at all that Francis not only knew what he was saying, but that he could make good on his words.

Walter swallowed again, nodding as Francis turned, and his eye went irresistibly to where the elegant sweep of disguising skirts most disguised. His own erection was filling the be-jeweled cod-piece admirably. It took no effort of imagination to see this Francis as the Oak-King, subduing Holly at the beginning of Spring, and his parts seemed almost as interested in that as they did in what was proper between Holly and Ivy.

 _"For Thou didst kiss me 'neath the mistletoe,  
And usher in sweet concord, joyous bliss  
Where Men and Maids together in a row  
Do dance the figure joined in lust i-wys"_

But Walter was not much interested in pretending that Francis was a woman - the skirts were more distraction than enticement, though the hint of pale curves just glimpsed beneath the edge of embroidered holland, moving with Francis' breath, constrained by whalebone and buckram and brocade to swell above the stays made Walter swell below. It was the contrast, the contradiction, the ambiguity as much as the air of cheerful lust the man (in either guise — plumed popinjay or bright-eyed raptor) wore as naturally as he did his rings. Almost without thought, Walter found his fingers reaching for the pins and laces to the bodice, the strings that tied the skirts, hardly noticing that Francis' long fingers were undoing Walter's own doublet buttons one by one, and deftly loosening his points. Francis' gown fell away, revealing kilted chemise and hose-clad legs at nearly the same moment as Walter realized his own trunk-hose were being urged down over his hips.

Walter let Francis' hands perform their office, drawing trunk-hose and nether-hose entirely off, lifting one foot and the other out of the dyed leather shoes, then rising up and finishing the removal of doublet and shirt. All the while Walter's own hands were running up and down and around the brocaded stiffness of the stays, pushing the fine linen off his shoulders, tracing the line where cloth met skin and watching as Francis' breath quickened with each touch. But when Walter reached to loosen the stay-lace, Francis stopped him. "No," he said, arching into Walter's hands, pressing groin to groin. "Leave it for now."

Francis was wearing nothing under the chemise, and the fine holland did nothing to disguise how hard he was as his erection slid against Walter's with only the linen between them. Walter shuddered at the touch, at the force of his own desire. He let his hands move down Francis' back, delving under his hem to cup and squeeze his nether-cheeks, hips rolling, rubbing their cocks together in a glory of heat and hardness until Francis gasped and with a breathless chuckle urged them toward the bed.

"No, no, my lord Holly," Francis said, laughing as he turned down the purfle and reached under the pillows. "Not so quick as that." He pulled out a little stoppered jar and arranged himself on the pillows with his legs spread wide, cock jutting up dark and proud against the rucked linen and pale satin. "Thou shouldst come in, not on." Then Francis tugged Walter down into a devouring kiss with one hand threaded into Walter's hair. With the other he was smoothing something cool and slick on Walter's rigid length. After another long and satisfactory moment of insistent lips and roving, teasing, rousing hands, Francis pulled back just enough to tilt his hips and guide the wet head of Walter's cock to press against that yielding, secret place, and say, nay, demand: "Will you enter in, milord?"

Which Walter was pleased to do, to their mutual and enthusiastic delight.

When they had rested for a little while after their exertions in bringing the Masque to its intimate and ecstatic close, first with and then without stays, Francis rolled Walter over and proceeded to prove beyond doubt that Oak as well as Ivy could reduce Holly to inarticulate gasps, writhing moans and incoherent, desperate entreaty, not to mention shattering release.

If it were that the gods of old did listen to the deeds and cries of men, the coming year would be well to pass: vigorous and productive indeed.

 _Our revels now draw to an end,_  
 _The Yule-log spent, the candles low_  
 _Yet mirth remains where love hath ken'd_  
 _To keep us all in bliss enow_  
 _Without the door the wind doth blow_  
 _Within are holly, ivy bright_  
 _Green and white the mistletoe_  
 _The sonne returned, the world aright_

 

 _With love and joy all sorrow mend_  
 _In kisses do our revels end._

  


____________________

**Author's Note:**

>  **Glossary**  
>  Affreighted — filled with meaning and symbolism  
> Basse danse, bransle — two types of dances. Bransle is pronounced 'brawl'  
> Candlemas — 1 February, the end of the liturgical season of Epiphany  
> Carcanet — necklace  
> Purfle — counterpane, down comforter  
> Greet — weep, cry  
> Holland — finely woven linen used for shirts and chemises  
> In fere — all together  
> I-wys — certainly  
> Kybe — chilblains  
> Little room of office — the jakes or necessary, an indoor arrangement, without actual plumbing.  
> Murrey — reddish-purple, the color of mulberries.  
> Pencils — pencils as we know them (graphite/graphite-clay mixture in some kind of transport mechanism) were developed sometime before 1565. They would have been rare and expensive, but not unknown. The Earl's lands are not far from the graphite deposit which led to the invention.  
> Strenketh — strengthens  
> Talbot — heraldic dog; originally an actual hunting hound, now extinct. It has a friendly aspect and long floppy ears  
> Thristlecock — male thrush  
> Wakefield — Walter was born in 1158; I am quite sure he was involved in all the major (and minor) mystery play productions in England at one time or another. The Wakefield and York cycles are the two best known today.  
> Wast — waste, decay  
> Watchet — light blue, from whortleberry ( _Vaccinium Myrtillus_ )
> 
>  **On the verses** — Walter Graham is a magpie, and while original creation/composition is not one of his strengths, synthesis, or taking and assembling elements from various sources into a pleasing and effective whole, is. These pieces are all based on/modeled on/derived from actual carols and songs of the period, with certain rather older ideas expressed more openly than would have been prudent in a less removed setting.


End file.
